Down the Road of Dreams
by Alone Dreaming
Summary: Chapter Eight: His faith was in what could be seen and felt, not the fairy tales of God and angels.
1. Birth

_**Birth**_

**By Alone Dreaming**

**Rating: **T for future chapters (for language, mature themes, mild violence, general Dean behavior)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Supernatural_. If I did, this wouldn't be posted under fanfiction.

**Warnings: **For this chapter, none, just sad themes.

**Dedication: **To Steph for giving me the themes and to the world for reading.

**Author's Note:** This is a series of vignettes. I'm trying to get myself into writing smaller portions of thought processes and I am using challenges to do it. There are twenty challenges in this group and I have five of them done. I'll post every other day or so except for this weekend because of plans. Enjoy!

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He was born three times. 

The first time was his actual, physical birth. He couldn't remember it, but his Dad and Mom had told him. His Mom said it was one of the happiest days of her life and his Dad said he couldn't have been more proud. It was his beginning, when he drew his first breath and when he first saw the outside world. But he didn't recall any of it. Hell, he had a hard enough time remembering what he ate for breakfast.

He figured that the second time was more defining. It was one of his clearest memories of his childhood. He was sitting in his preschool class, watching a cartoon with the intensity that only a child of four could manage. At the time, he hadn't thought much of the day, other than it was cold outside. But then his teacher came over and took his hand, leading him away from the talking animals and happy songs. His Dad was here to get him, she said. Something very special had happened, she said, something important. She didn't know how right she was. On the day Sammy was born, he was reborn. He brought his Mom flowers, sat on her bed, and held his baby brother in his arms. Just like that, he went from being a kid to being a big brother.

But those two births were nothing compared to his third birth. That was the real, true birth. It was what led to what he was today. It was the worst event in his life and the most essential one in his being. The day his Dad shoved his Sammy into his arms and told him to go; to run; to save himself and his brother; he became someone new. And he was both proud and sad to say that he was still that person today. That day forced him to become more than just a child and a big brother. It was now his job to be the Mom, the Dad, and the big brother to a baby. It was his job to be a protector, a guardian, a teacher, and a source of pure and unconditional love, all wrapped into one. This third birth was the most important thing of his life.

He never thought it strange that it took three times to get it right.

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	2. Loss

_**Loss**_

**By Alone Dreaming**

**Rating and Disclaimer: **_See first chapter._

**Warnings:** General angst and sadness and small character death.

**Dedication:** To Steph for reminding me that I write what I want because I want to not because other people like it.

**Author's Note:** This is the second in the challenges. Enjoy.

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When he was just barely twelve years old and Sammy was close to turning eight, they found a kitten outside the hotel room. 

He never, ever liked cats. Something about their eyes and unpredictable nature had always made him nervous. It sent shivers down his spine when they moved sleekly, silently, from place to place, and when they sat quietly and stared at nothing for long periods of time. In his mind, it was wrong for an animal to do that. They weren't supposed to think like cats seemed to. On the contrary, any pet was supposed to be like a dog. Smart enough to know what to protect, dumb enough to not try to comprehend, and loyal to a fault; that's what made dogs the perfect pet.

He was going to leave the thing outside but Sam, with eyes that rivaled a puppy's, had insisted that it needed a warm place to stay. Sam always knew how to win him over, and he found himself sitting with less than a pound of fluff in his lap while Sam scampered to get towels from the bathroom. In the long run, he couldn't figure who was more miserable: the wet, little kitten, who was peering up at him with large, green eyes, or he, the kid who hated cats, who was getting a damp spot in his jeans. He wrinkled his nose at the furry face and tried to focus on something else.

But an hour later found him still with full attention on the animal he despised; or highly disliked in any case. Sam had an infatuation with the critter and was attempting to get it to drink milk. He watched as his little brother attempted to coax the kitten to lap a bit from a bowl and noted that the kitten was showing no interest. For the first time, he noticed that it had a glaze about its eyes and its fur was patchy at best. Fine tremors coursed its tiny form and its nose was dripping.

"Dean, it's not going to die, is it?" Sam asked, his tone pleading. "Help me not let it die!"

Sammy always had the ability to make him do things he didn't want to do.

Two hours after that, when he had finally convinced Sam to go to bed, he found himself sitting up with a kitten in his arms. He and his brother had managed to get some milk into the ailing creature, and Sam had only gone to sleep when he'd promised to keep looking after it until it drank the whole bowl of milk. Deep down, he knew that it wasn't possible and that the kitten would die before it finished even a third. But he kept trying, letting it lick the milk off his fingers and tenderly stroking the soft fur until finally, close to one, it stopped moving all together.

Sam was devastated.

"You promised," he cried, eyes wide and betrayed. "You said you'd look after it!"

He sighed and turned his face away. "I did, Sammy, but it was very sick."

They buried it out behind the place and Sam was inconsolable for the rest of the day. "I can't trust you," he whimpered, not quite meaning what he was saying. At seven years old, trust didn't mean what it did to an adult. "I can't ever trust you again."

And while Sam mourned the loss of the kitten, he mourned his loss of being perfect in his little brother's eyes.

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	3. The End Justifies the Means

_**The End Justifies the Means**_

**By Alone Dreaming**

**Rating and Disclaimer: **_See first chapter._

**Warnings: **Angst, Mature Language

**Dedication:** For Steph because she's always there. Specially dedicated to Phx as proof that my Dean loves Sammy very, very much. _Wink_

**Author's Note:** Fourth in the series of twenty. That's about all. Oh- and none of these have been beta'd so be patient with me.

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For him, the end justified the means, especially when it came to helping his brother. 

When Sam was sixteen and he was twenty, one of their father's enemies brought down a curse on Sam. She was a voodoo mistress, talented, powerful and vengeful, and she knew precisely where her powers would be put to best use. At first, it seemed like Sam had a stomach virus. Two days later, however, when black came up with vomit and started coming from Sam's ears, it was scarily apparent that it wasn't. He sat next to his brother, watching this with horror, and realizing he had no idea what to do. Their father was away and none of the contacts he had were responding to his calls.

So he did the only thing he could do. He went off to hunt that bitch down.

The end justified the means, he told himself, as he began to seek where she was staying. He was still at Sam's bedside when he began to pinpoint the location and when he was relatively sure he had a fix, he brought Sam to the hospital. From there, he started his journey towards the dark swamps somewhere in the Florida Everglades. The end justified the means, his mind sang, as he hustled pool to get more gas and used fake credit cards to stay in hotels that clearly needed some real income. It was his mantra as he stole, fought, and cheated his way down to where the witch was located.

And it was exactly what he was thinking when he shot her six times in the chest and burned her. The end was Sam getting better and the means were quickly forgotten.

For him, there was no matter of conscience when it came to his brother being threatened. If something was going to hurt his Sammy, that sucker had better start watching its ass. If it meant he had to kill a person, a real, living, breathing person, in order to save his brother, he'd do it without a thought. If he had to lie and whore himself out to make it work, then that's just what he would do.

"How'd you manage it?" his brother asked hoarsely as they went back to the shoddy apartment they called home.

He snorted. "I'm not completely helpless without Dad, _Sammy_. I can hunt on my own." It wasn't what Sam meant and he knew it but he didn't provide any clearer answers.

Because with Sam, the means simply weren't important.

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	4. Inertia

_**Inertia**_

**By Alone Dreaming**

**Rating and Disclaimer:** _See the next chapter._

**Warnings: **General Anguish

**Dedication:** To Steph, as always, for giving me a smile and a pat on the head.

**Author's Note: **Five of twenty. Again, unbetad but it's not horrid! Enjoy.

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He liked where he was in life and had no inclination to change it.

It wasn't as though he'd always loved it. In fact, he had hated it at first. Overnight, he had gone from playing baseball, baking cookies and reading bedtime stories to caring for Sammy, learning to fight and researching demons that his mother had sworn didn't exist. He'd been so furious and sad that he didn't speak to his father for months. And those emotions hadn't gone away. They festered and grew until one day he discovered, at the tender age of five, that he had to either bury the feelings and go on or explode from all the pain.

The first seemed like a better option. He didn't like change but he realized he didn't have a choice.

So he settled into his new life like a rock in the water. He gave his whole heart to Sammy, his whole body to training and his whole mind to learning everything he could about the supernatural. He imbedded himself into the life, forced himself to love it and focused completely on forgetting what he used to have. It was the only way he'd survive. He had to get to the point where he couldn't be moved or the slightest reminder of his old life would throw him into a tailspin. So, he was in a state of inertia; a state of balance.

And then his brother left him, tearing away one of his three pillars. He found himself teetering on the edge, unable to balance on the two things that were left. For a long time, he'd thought his three strong places in life had been equal. But Sam made him realize abruptly that his family, especially Sam, had always been his main support. Hunting and learning new things were just small, insignificant crutches. His inertia was set in those he loved not the things he loved.

He again found himself in a position where he could save himself or go insane. This time, his decision wasn't as wise. He let the fear, the hurt, and the anger, take over for a bit. He followed his father on crazy missions, each time pushing himself to the point where he almost broke physically. It took a trip to see Sam to shake him out of the behavior and afterwards, he found that he was broken. He curled up in a hotel room until his father found him, sick, tired, wounded beyond repair.

And as his father nursed him back to health physically, he came to the decision that the only way he could avoid change, the only way he could keep his inertia, was to depend on one person and one person only.

Himself.

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	5. Syzygy

_**Syzygy**_

**By Alone Dreaming**

**Rating and Disclaimer: **_See first chapter._

**Warnings: **Mild language, angst, bad usage of the word "syzygy"

**Dedication:** To Steph and my reviewers

**Author's Note: **Six of twenty. Still unbetad. On the bright side, the chapters are being posted regularly.

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His brother grew up to be like their dad which was weird because he, not his father, had frickin' raised the kid.

But there was no denying it. Sammy radiated John. His looks, his temper even the way he walked was screamed to John. When he was frustrated, his brow would crinkle in the same fashion and when he was very angry, he would demand for respect in the same tone. The way he held a gun when he was aiming at a demon was an imitation of John's way of handling a weapon and the way he slept in bits and pieces was similar to John's own nighttime patterns. It was as though he'd raised a clone of his father without even realizing it.

He was left being the odd man out.

He didn't look like his father really and consequentially, he didn't look much like Sam. When he was angry, he shut down and refused to talk and when he wanted respect, he used his posture and eyes instead of his voice. He had his own way of holding a weapon and his own style of fighting, developed through different hunts and his father's teachings. And anyone who'd watched him sleep knew he slept like a dead man and would continue to for hours if he wasn't woken up. In the end, it wasn't that he was nothing like his father or his brother. He was just so incredibly different that they couldn't be compared.

He was even different in the reason he hunted.

Their dad had lost their mother. Sammy was too young to remember John before the Demon ruined their lives but he could. He remembered their Dad taking him to preschool, to Little League, to the park, and he could remember how their Dad used to smile. John didn't do that after their mom had died. His spark, his light, had died in a puff of smoke and flames. When the flames were extinguished, all that was left was the shell of their father and a lot of vengeance.

And no one understood that better than Sam. His girlfriend, the girl he planned on marrying, had left the same way their mother had. She'd gone up in flames because of the Demon and she'd left Sam in agony just like their mother had left their father. Of course, Sam's solution would be the same as their father's solution was: kick Demon ass until it begs for the kicking to stop and then shoot it until the begging stops as well. He could see the vendetta in Sam's eyes that echoed the one that so long lingered in their father's eyes.

They were the same, his father and brother; related through the same tragedies and on the same path to destruction.

He hunted because it was what he did. Hunting was no longer the thing he was forced to do. It was a part of him, permanently, and he doubted he would ever be able to settle down and be normal. There would always be lives to save and things to dispose of. Unlike his father and brother, he fought to save, to make sure no other little boys would have to grow up without a mommy or a daddy. If he happened to get a chance to kill the bastard that had made him this way, he'd take it, but it wasn't the top and only thing on his list. It didn't come before everything else.

So in the end, even though he'd been raised by his father and in turn, had raised an imitation of the man, the only syzygy he had in common with them was that he was on the same road of destruction as they were.

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	6. Theory

_**Theory**_

**By Alone Dreaming**

**Rating and Disclaimer: **_See chapter one._

**Warnings:** Slightly mature topics, bad language, angst, dorky humor

**Dedication:** To Steph, for the smiles and laughs, and to Emi for getting a kick out of it.

**Author's Note**: This is actually six of twenty but somehow I got off. Trying to get you guys, see if you noticed. I was looking at my author's notes and wondering why I didn't re-read them. Did some messing up. Anyhow- chapter six of twenty is here. Still unbeta'd. Enjoy.

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"I can still taste you in my mouth," he whined from the bathroom. "And it's just fuckin' wrong."

He heard Sam make a noncommittal noise from the room and gave his teeth another vicious scrub. Over the front teeth, then down to the molars, then around the area followed by his tongue; repeat process. Spitting the toothpaste suds into the sink, he noted blood with them and decided that it was another reason to whine. He picked up the toothpaste, spread more of it onto the bristles, and started to brush again.

"This is so not cool," he garbled. "Urgh… How the hell am I supposed to get chicks when I taste like my little brother?"

"How would they know?" Sam asked, his voice dripping with irritation.

He paused, and leaned out of the bathroom. "Dude, they just know it."

"Whatever," Sam grumbled, not looking up from his computer. Then, he mumbled under his breath, "No possible way they could know."

He raised an eyebrow and went back into the bathroom. "Not true, Sammy," he garbled. "They know. They've got this intuition and it totally turns them off. I've got proof."

"It's Sam," his brother grunted. "The only way they could know is if they kissed the both of us."

He wrinkled his nose and pulled his bottom lip down. Deciding it wasn't clean enough, he squirted the toothpaste directly onto his teeth. "That's nasty," he said, not bothering to wipe off the toothpaste that dribbled onto his chin.

Something snapped in the bedroom and he peered around the corner to see what it was. Sam was holding a broken pencil in his hand, his eyes fixated on the screen. He could tell that his brother wasn't reading the words though. His face radiated a myriad of emotions, the two most prominent irritation and anger, but he couldn't help but note that grief was there too. The slight tremble of Sam's shoulders and the way his hand was squeezing the pieces of the pencil, he could tell that his brother was struggling not to explode on the spot.

Maybe he'd pressed a little too hard.

"Pencils don't grow on trees you know," he commented lightly, discarding his toothbrush in the sink and wiping his chin. "Need to be careful with them."

Sam didn't answer immediately. Instead, he released the pencil from the white knuckled grip and took in a deep breath. "Next time, Dean," he said, his voice wavering. "I'm just gonna let you drown."

"You don't mean that," he replied, hovering in the doorway. His lips twitched. "I know you don't."

Sam glared at him, and he could see, underneath it all, the lingering fear. "Wanna bet?"

"Fifty bucks," he offered, "says that you'll bail me out next time my ass is on the line."

Sam just shook his head. A smile crossed his lips and he muttered, "Stupid jerk," under his breath. He would've retorted with, "Cranky bitch," but his little brother was using the phrase rather affectionately and, considering how upset Sam had been two seconds before, he didn't push it. Instead, he decided that maybe flossing would take away the lingering remnants of Sammy and went back to the bathroom to test his theory.

The fact was, he didn't know that Sam would save him again. Just like how he didn't know if they'd ever find their Dad, or kill the Demon. It was similar to how he wasn't sure about when they would get their next meal, or if the credit card would work one more time, or if they'd both escape the next hunt unscathed. In fact, it was almost identical to, though he'd never admit it, how he wasn't sure if the girls could really tell if he tasted like his brother or if they just didn't like him. He wasn't sure of anything at all. He hadn't been since his mother died pinned to the ceiling.

But hell, he'd be damned if he didn't have a lot of theories.

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	7. Both Sides

_**Both Sides**_

**By Alone Dreaming**

**Rating and Disclaimer:** _See Chapter One_

**Warnings: **Language

**Author's Note**: It's been a while but I figured I'd try my hand at this again. Enjoy.

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Dean hears both sides to the story when he wakes up. 

According to Dad, Sam missed the shot. The ghost appeared two feet away and Sam missed it. It should have been impossible, Dad insists. Maybe if Sam had done his training instead of his homework, Dean wouldn't be looking forward to a week off his feet. Maybe next time, Sam would put down fucking Moby Dick long enough to make sure he could still shoot in a straight line. That way, at least, he would be a help instead of a hindrance on the hunt.

According to Sam, Dad was ill prepared for the hunt. They should've done more research before they charged in, guns blazing, to take down a vindictive, female nurse who had been torturing the old folk in a retirement home. Yes, he did do his homework but it was for the scholarship money he wanted and he never neglected hunts. The danger outweighed the importance of the schoolwork. Yes, he cared for this freaking family but life too often revolved around shooting fucking bottles on fences. Maybe if Dad gave half a damn about them, he'd be supportive of Sam's future and make sure he knew what he was fucking doing before dragging them into a hunt.

Dean doesn't know who's right. All he can remember is the ghost throwing him faster than a baseball and smashing him through a pair of sliding glass doors. The rest is a bundle of vague hallucination dabbled with hazy memory. So, he achieves the only thing left to him.

Accept both sides and move on.


	8. Faith

Faith

_**Faith**_

**By Alone Dreaming**

**Rating and Disclaimer:** _See chapter one._

**Warnings:** _None._

**Author's Note:** Finally, something I can write that doesn't need to be double spaced, turned in and graded.

His Mom had faith in God and his Dad had faith in their Mom. Therefore, for the first few years of his life, his Dad had faith in God. As a child he had faith in what his parents saw fit so when his mother leaned over his bed, pressed a kiss on his forehead and said, "The angels are watching out for you, my dear," he believed her.

"Never lose faith," she whispered. And put the seed of belief in his heart.

Then his Mom died in a fiery murder and his father lost the thing he had faith in. Suddenly, there was no more going to church, or saying prayer at night or giving praise for the good things in life. God became a myth and the demons Mom said God protected people from became glaringly real. While proof of evil piled up in front of him, proof of good faded away. Instead of being a soldier in a war for good with thousands of crusaders and an all powerful being on his side, he was a mercenary for necessity alone except for his family. Life proved to him that faith in the unseen got you killed. The seed that had burrowed into his heart slowly began to dry up, until there was nothing there but a husk. He didn't have time, patience or even, proof that such a seed could help him. The only things he could believe in were the things that were there, palpable and available. Fairy tales, make believe, angels, God were for special people who were meant for more, who could focus on other things than what was necessary.

So, one night, bent over his sleeping brother's bed, he whispered, "Never lose faith, Sammy, for the both of us," and he transferred the seed to Sam.


End file.
